Night Queen
by V-San
Summary: Makoto Niijima is young when her father dies, but it doesn't blunt the pain one bit. She grows up that little bit angrier, her justice smeared blood red on the streets of Tokyo and the yakuza always in her crosshairs. (AU)


_Night Queen_

* * *

The atmosphere was as tense as Ryozo Takeshita had ever known it to be in the little mahjong parlour on Shibuya's backstreets. He smirked at the three men he shared a table with, only a bead of sweat rolling down his neck showing his unease.

"That's a pretty gutsy move for someone with so much to lose," Kenjiro taunted from his left, pushing back his greasy hair to study the layout of the tiles before him.

From his right Osamu snorted, made his move and stared confidently back at Ryozo, loosening the collar of the gaudy shirt he wore as he did so. Ryozo wasn't worried though; of the four men that sat at the table he could say with confidence that Osamu was the most dull-witted. He always found a way to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.

The man across from him was another story.

Giichi was taking his time, as usual. His eyes darted to each opponent, then back down at the table as he considered his options.

Giichi Kuroba was known as Shibuya's West Wind for a reason, which had left Kenjiro and Osamu with steadily decreasing funds over the course of the evening. Ryozo had been holding his own however, and hoped to turn the tables very soon.

Finally, he snapped up a tile from the wall and set it down with a click. "Riichi," he said calmly, while Kenjiro tensed. He swapped his tiles with nervous fingers and declared pon with sigh of relief as Giichi made no move to declare a win.

Finally the turn came back to Ryozo. He frowned at Kenjiro's worthless discard and reached hesitantly towards the centre of the table. He had a lot riding on this game, more than was wise if he was honest with himself, but one look at the hint of smugness in Giichi's eyes was enough to harden his resolve. He plucked a tile blindly.

The tile was flipped and he stared dumbly at the nine dots on the piece, before it was slammed on to the table in triumph.

"Ron! Nine Gates!"

He laughed triumphantly as Kenjiro and Osamu slumped in defeat, and Giichi's expression turned distasteful.

"God damnit!" Kenjiro whined as he pushed the few winnings he'd made over the course of the evening towards Ryozo. Osamu sighed and took a swig of the drink next to him before doing the same with his own winnings.

"Sorry guys," Ryozo said, "looks like tonight just isn't your night!"

Fanning himself with the table's drinks menu, he sneered over at Giichi, who had yet to push over his share.

"Well played," he said stonily, and for a second Ryozo wondered if he'd noticed that several tiles in play had switched places when their latest drinks order had arrived at the game's beginning.

Sweating, he tried to tell himself that he was being dumb, and that Giichi would have called him out on it sooner, but he also knew that there was a reason people feared Shibuya's West Wind outside of mahjong as well.

"Heh, w-what can I say Giichi? I was born under a lucky star."

And then a motorbike crashed through the window and hit him.

The dark little den was thrown into chaos, the bike ploughing through the tables and colliding with the bar. The three remaining men dived for cover and Osamu screamed when he saw the bloody pulp that was Ryozo, smeared across the floor.

The shrieking waitresses fled as the lights went out with several pops. Three canisters were thrown out amidst the confusion and what little light the room was afforded from the streetlights outside was soon obscured by thick smoke.

Giichi rose first, cursing when he realised that the gun he'd placed on the table at the start of the evening was lost somewhere amidst the debris. He squinted through the smoke, trying to figure out where the rider of the bike was, seeing the wreckage of the bar but not much else.

As his brain made the connection that this might be a planned attack, a dark figure rushed him from the shadows and a knee was slammed into his throat.

His eyes bugged out at the sudden pain and he clawed wildly at his neck. The figure landed, and then delivered a solid punch to his jaw. Shibuya's West Wind, right hand man to the right hand man of Junya Kaneshiro, hit the floor like a demolished building.

The figure leapt over Giichi's body, Osamu rose unsteadily to his feet in an attempt to flee. But the figure simply grabbed him by the shoulders and head butted him, the dark motorcycle helmet they wore caved in his face brutally.

"Shit! SHIT!" Kenjiro could barely make out what had happened through the smoke, but he knew enough to know that his associates were gone and he was most likely next. He scrambled backwards away from the figure that now advanced upon him, shrieking louder as his hands found Ryozo's remains.

His back hit solid wall, eyes darting towards the huge hole left in the window. But any notions of escape were quickly cut off as his head was wrenched around by a hand at his chin.

The black figure loomed over him in motorbike leathers, their eyes not visible through the tinted visor of their helmet. As they reached to pull down the scarf obscuring their mouth, Kenjiro noticed the slightness of the person that held him, and something horrifying clicked into place in his brain.

"Oh fuck, it's _you_!"

The devilish grin that met his words made Kenjiro wish he'd been the one flattened by that motorbike as the girl who held him reached down with her free hand and pulled a gun from the holster at her side. Raising it level with his head.

For the past few months there'd been weird rumours on the streets that he'd not really paid any mind to. Rumours of a girl who rode a motorbike at night and brought hell on any Yakuza members she found. There'd been talks of ambushes across Tokyo, but nothing anyone took seriously, especially not the higher ups.

It'd been something he and the boys had laughed at after one too many beers. The stories got wilder and wilder each time they were told. Everyone knew a friend of a friend's buddy who swore up and down they'd seen her, but it was always laughed off as small talk.

Kenjiro gulped as he remembered what he'd said the first time he'd heard the rumours:

" _Girl who spends every night on a motorbike must have a pretty firm ass huh? I know I've got somethin' here she could ride!"_

As the cool metal of the gun tapped against his forehead, he swore that if he somehow made it out of this mess he'd apologise to every girl he'd ever disrespected.

"P-please-"

"Shut up," the figure growled, "you get one chance to walk away from here under your own power tonight, and that's by telling me where your boss spends his Friday nights and with who. Understand?"

He nodded and rattled off what he knew. Tears streamed down his face as the gun was tapped against his forehead periodically. The grin never left the rider's face, and Kenjiro imagined that her eyes were burning hellfire under her darkened visor.

He kept his ears pricked for police sirens, but none came. The screaming wait staff were long gone, and he realised the cold dread that he was completely alone with a girl that could murder him any time she chose.

"That's all I know, I swear!"

Nodding once as Kenjiro finished, the black rider finally let her grin drop as she flipped the pistol in her grip and slammed it into the yakuza member's temple.

She didn't really care if it killed him or not.

The way Makoto Niijima saw it, Yakuza scum deserved to leave this earth sooner rather than later.

She rose, fingering the material of her scarf as she holstered the model gun back at her side. Getting a licence for a real gun was far too much trouble and would raise far too many questions, but fortunately she knew about an enthusiast who sold guns that were as close to the real thing she could find on a student's savings. They were useful in a pinch and that was what mattered.

A small chirp sounded next to her ear, and she pushed a small button on the side of her helmet and listened.

"I got what I needed, yes."

"I see. Thanks for keeping the police diverted."

"No, I'm fine. They were drunk and barely knew what was happening."

"I'm heading out now. Thanks again, A."

Makoto smiled at the reply she got before that line went dead. 'A' was her mission control of sorts, and she knew that they'd be able to come up with a plan of where to strike next based on the information Makoto had gotten tonight.

She strode back over to her bike, pulling her scarf back over her mouth as she did and not caring about the gore she stepped in doing so. Pulling the vehicle up from the wreckage and mounting it, she marvelled for a second at the complete lack of damage. She knew the engine would start up with no trouble as well, despite her chaotic entrance. Well, the bike was special after all, but it still never failed to impress her.

Gunning the engine almost instantly, she sped out of the ruined parlour, not sparing a glance back at the ruin in her wake. The bike roared off onto the streets of Shibuya, the sound of her departure echoing for miles.

Then finally, all fell silent.

* * *

 _A.N. So this series totally came about because Makoto's entire Phantom Thief design just screamed 'vigilante' to me, especially with her strong views on justice (plus I think motorbike riding heroes are extra cool). I wanted to think of a world in which that justice has a target and her anger is left a lot more unchecked. This one shot is firmly in medias res for this AU as I've thought of it, and if people like it I'd love to keep writing. I've thought of ways to include the other Phantom Thieves in Makoto's crusade against the yakuza and some interesting stuff with her bike too..._

 _I'd also like to thank cypsiman2 from Tumblr for being a great beta and offering tips on cleaning up my writing. I'm hella rusty right now and he really helped so much._

 _Hope you liked it~_


End file.
